


White Lies

by Lamachine



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/F, PWP, Violence, angsty smut, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2385173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamachine/pseuds/Lamachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Somehow, she hadn’t thought another run-in with Martine would end up with Martine’s hand up her dress again, but now that she felt that warm breath running down her neck Shaw couldn’t figure out how it would ever end another way, with the exception of one of them gunning down the other.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Shaw bit down her lip. This mission wasn’t going as planned – lately it never was. Samaritan continuously had the upper hand as they squirmed into their daily jobs and unsatisfying covers, and Shaw blamed her recent weakness on the fact that she had been still for too long.

 

“And now you’re wondering if I’m lying to you,” Martine purred, her nails raking down Shaw’s scapula. She didn’t need to check to know the hotel’s corridor was empty, most guests still gathered at the commotion downstairs.

 

“That, too,” Shaw groaned, letting her head rest against the wall. Her body tingled with pain and pleasure all the same, and Shaw still felt the sweet rush of having recently fired her weapon at someone. A few floors below she imagined the police searching for them both, but Shaw knew better than to run.

 

Somehow, she hadn’t thought another run-in with Martine would end up with Martine’s hand up her dress again, but now that she felt that warm breath running down her neck Shaw couldn’t figure out how it would ever end another way, with the exception of one of them gunning down the other.

 

Shaw was confident she would be the one shooting first then, when it would come to it. No reason not to enjoy this while it lasted.

 

Martine smirked, as if she had guessed Shaw’s thoughts, and Shaw averted her eyes. “Has it occurred to you yet,” she pushed one hand against Shaw’s wounded thigh and forced a hiss out of her throat, “that I’m not the only one lying?”

 

Groaning, Shaw grabbed Martine by the waist and pushed her across the corridor, shoving her body against the wall. Martine’s grin only widened, ignoring the loud thump of the impact and the bruises it would surely leave.

 

“Room 409,” she gritted through her teeth, sending one look to her left, indicating the way.

 

There was no point in questioning her words – with Samaritan buzzing answers through her earpiece of course Martine knew where to go. Shaw had a mind to sever her connection and watch her squirm, but something prevented her from using the tech Root had given her a few days ago. Some old pain lingered in her stomach and she swallowed hard, pushing the burning down.

 

Ignoring the little stream of blood running down her cheek, Shaw pushed Martine down the hotel’s corridor, exchanging bites and scratches with every door that went by. They found the 409 bloodied and bruised, both already aching and panting. Martine easily unlocked the door, yet allowed Shaw to move in first, an odd smirk twisting her lips like some private joke Shaw couldn’t understand.

 

“You think you like to be in control,” Martine started, following Shaw inside the room and closing the door behind her.

 

She took only one step forward before Shaw shoved her against the door, biting Martine’s lip to erase that grin she hated.

 

“You’re so predictable, Agent Shaw,” she mocked, her fingers running down Shaw’s black dress again, voice and fingers dangerously lowering. “So obvious.”

 

Shaw groaned. “Do you ever shut up?”

 

Martine’s laugh, as clear and cold as a river, it rushed the air out of Shaw’s lungs at the exact moment Martine hitched up Shaw’s dress, the fabric hanging tight above the waist. Nails raked against Shaw’s inner thighs and Shaw closed her eyes, picturing them black.

 

“What’s so funny?” Shaw asked, opening her eyelids, frustrated and annoyed when Martine continued to laugh and tease all the same.

 

“You don’t want me to shut up,” Martine smirked, and again Shaw felt that old wandering pain in her gut, like a fire burning inside, flames licking at the skin and reaching up her throat. “You like it when I go on,” the fingers slipped into Shaw, rigid and cold, and Shaw closed her eyes again. “And on and on,” Martine repeated, her wrist twisting ever so slightly.

 

It took her a second to slip her feet behind Shaw’s ankle, pushing herself forward and spinning fast, shoving Shaw against the door in her place. Shaw didn’t repress a groan from leaving her as the pain spread down her spine, adding to the pleasure Martine’s skilled hands hadn’t stopped giving. She fisted Martine’s clothes, grinding against the hand as her fingers dug into Martine, creating little bruises here and there, and angry red crescents where her nails marked the skin.

 

“It makes you think of her,” Martine whispered in her ear and even with her eyes closed Shaw knew those red lips were curled up in a smirk. “Of what you want  her to do to you.”

 

Martine bit down Shaw’s neck hard as she rushed a third finger in and Shaw cried out unwillingly. Her arousal flared up as she listened to the words, refusing to acknowledge the pronouns.

 

“Of what  you want to do to her,” Martine brought her close to orgasm with one twitch of the wrist and then slowed down drastically. “I wonder, are you going to say her name when you come?”

 

The voice was mocking and taunting and the perfume was all wrong. Shaw felt the pleasure rolling inside and the anger burning wild and she allowed both to pull her apart.

 

“I won’t be angry,” Martine continued, voice softening while her hand moved more furiously. “You want to scream her name now, don’t you?”

 

Shaw clenched her jaw, trying to ignore Martine’s voice, although the flames inside blazed as if encouraged by some relentless wind, feeding it oxygen even as Shaw lost her breath.

 

“Do you need me to say it?” Martine asked and Shaw’s eyes flicked open.

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Shaw threatened even as her hips continued to grind against Martine’s hand. Disgust rolled at the back of her throat, and it was uncertain who it was aimed at. She swallowed hard, one hand clutching at the door as the other pulled Martine closer.

 

Martine laughed again, only this time it wasn’t a river, it was a sea and Shaw drowned in it, closing her eyes and picturing another voice, another face, another name. “Oh but you like lying to yourself,” she pushed against Shaw harder, her other fingers scratching down Shaw’s neck until it drew blood. “I don’t mind helping you with that.”

 

Shaw came almost violently then, shaking and cold, with a groan stuck in her throat.

 

“But one day, I’m going to make you scream my name,” Martine warned with a smirk, pulling out of Shaw and licking her fingers. The burning inside was choking and Shaw pushed Martine off of her, ignoring the trembling of her hands and the weakness in her knees.

 

She replaced her clothes without sparing Martine another look, and opened the door as instinctively as if she was reaching for her gun. “Good luck with that,” Shaw replied with a smirk of her own.

 

Yet hours later, when Root showed up at Shaw’s makeup counter, that grin slipped off Shaw’s lips. The red scratch marks on her neck felt like they were burning right through the body foundation she had used to conceal them. Root didn’t comment on them, but her sad eyes told Shaw more than she ever wanted to know.

 

That old pain in her stomach returned, deafening and threatening to pull her apart, and as Root bit down her lower lip nervously, Shaw was tempted to let it burn her whole.


	2. Chapter 2

A silent alarm rang loudly at the back of her mind, reminding Shaw that she wasn’t supposed to be there, that she had decided not let this happen again. In the quiet apartment there was nothing but the rush of fabric against fabric, the dead men in the other room telling no tales. Shaw barely spared a thought to the bullets the police officers were sure to find in their bodies later – bullets that would lead them to an unregistered gun Shaw would ditch somewhere later tonight, even though her shots hadn’t killed those men.

 

Martine had.

 

_Samaritan’s orders_ , she had purred, but Shaw didn’t quite believe that.

 

Nevertheless Shaw didn’t complain as Martine pushed her across the room, quick fingers undoing Shaw’s pants and pulling them down. Shaw didn’t help, but she didn’t fight them either; she kept her eyes on the door and wondered why she hadn’t left yet.

 

Her pants fell to her ankles and Martine pushed Shaw down on a leather couch, smirking when Shaw’s fingers automatically pulled her closer. There was a drumming in Shaw’s ears, a sound deafening like her pulse magnified, and her throat tightened as Martine kneeled between her legs.

 

On the floor, Shaw’s phone dropped from her pocket and Martine’s slender fingers quickly grabbed it. She winked before she unlocked it and dialed a number, the line picking up before Shaw even had time to react. Shaw’s earpiece transmitted the voice automatically and Shaw cursed technology, not for the first time.

 

“Sameen?” Root worried on the other side of the line, and Shaw tried to ignore the smile growing on Martine’s face. “Is everything alright?”

 

Shaw considered hanging up then, but Martine’s eyes convinced her otherwise as she leaned down, her nails raking down Shaw’s thighs.

 

“Yes, everything’s fine,” Shaw replied as if disinterested, yet she breathed in sharply when Martine’s tongue danced on her skin, her blonde curls teasing all the same.

 

“You sound strange Shaw,” Root mocked awkwardly with a tired voice, and Shaw was reminded of the eerie hour, the middle of the night really, and that she still hadn’t explained why she was calling, “are you sure you’re okay?”

 

Once again Shaw lifted her hand towards her earpiece, tempted to disconnect the communication and whatever sick game Martine wanted to play. Yet there was a mischievous glint in Martine’s eyes that dared her to go on, and Shaw had never backed down from a challenge.

 

“I’m fine,” Shaw finally let out, and as a reward a finger moved to her labia, fingertip teasing the skin.

 

“Should I make assumptions?” Root joked, obviously uncomfortable, and Shaw could hear bed sheets tousling.

 

Shaw repressed a groan when Martine’s fingers split her open, a sweet torture when cold air hit her clit. “What kind of assumptions?” she heard her own voice, raspy and low, and closed her eyes.

 

“Well it sounds like you’re busy there,” Root teased, evidently more awake now. “All that panting...”

 

“I just came home from a run,” Shaw protested immediately, but knew it so obviously sounded like a lie. She felt Martine’s hair brushing against her thighs and the tightening in her throat worsened as she pictured Root, half-asleep in her bed, a phone in her hand.

 

Through the line, Shaw could almost hear Root’s smirk. “Uh-huh,” she mocked. “So what are you calling me for?”

 

No words came to mind, no excuses, no matter how Shaw tried to find one. There was something inside her that threatened to come up, something burning like a confession, but when Martine bit her thigh hard Shaw only repressed another moan.

 

“Shaw, what kind of call is this?” Root’s banter slowly shifted into doubts and the warmth inside Shaw’s chest grew uncomfortable. “Because this sounds... well you know what this sounds like.”

 

“Root,” Shaw tried to complain against Root’s insinuations, but it seemed almost like she was begging instead.

 

“This isn’t really disproving my theory,” Root said almost cheerfully, but there was something serious in her voice, like she was asking for permission. Shaw didn’t answer, breathing in and out and trying not to lose control as Martine continued to move between her legs, teasing. “Shaw, are you there?”

 

Her skin was unnervingly sticking to the leather and suddenly Shaw felt like running away, eyes opening to look at the door. “Yes,” she answered anyway, ignoring Martine’s eyes, staring at her from below, or the way her own voice came out of her like a moan.

 

“This is really hot,” Root joked again, something tensed in her words. When Shaw remained silent – but for the heavy breathing – she continued; “should I tell you what I’m wearing?”

 

Shaw closed her eyes again, a burning on her cheek and a faint yet sharp pain stabbing through her lungs. “Shut up,” she ordered, and yet changed her mind almost immediately; “where are you?”

 

Root drew in a sharp breath, and Shaw imagined her eyes widening. “At my place,” she started, voice lowering, “on my bed.”

 

Martine’s tongue was circling her clit when Shaw breathed out loudly. “Are you...?” she didn’t dare add the rest of the question, figuring Root had understood already.

 

“Yes,” Root replied, hesitant. “Shaw, are you...?”

 

“Fuck,” Shaw bit down her lower lip as Martine slipped a finger inside her, “Root, this isn’t-”

 

“I know,” Root cut her with a whisper. “Not a thing.”

 

There was sadness lurking in Root’s voice and it sharpened the pain that throbbed through Shaw’s lungs, and yet Shaw couldn’t focus on it. The drumming in her ears intensified as Martine added a second finger and Shaw rode it hard, a wave of warmth spreading from her chest to her limbs.

 

“I just need,” Shaw lost her voice again, and groaned instead.

 

“Someone to get you off, I know,” Root confirmed as her breathing slowly became more erratic. “I’ve been thinking of this,” she confessed.

 

Shaw’s heart was pumping blood like never before and under her the couch turned hot and wet as Martine let out a chuckle.

 

“I’ve been thinking of you,” Root went on, and a moan escaped her lips. “Of how it would feel to kiss you... to bite you.” She was panting as she continued, swallowing hard, “your neck,” she whispered almost reverently, and Shaw’s hand reached up, nails biting in her skin right under her pulse point, “I _really_ like your neck.”

 

A few seconds of silence rushed by before Root’s voice lowered; dangerously close in Shaw’s ear. “Do you want me to go on?”

 

Shaw bit her lip before she allowed her with a hissed out “yes.”

 

“I’d like to hurt you, Shaw,” something about her name, the way it slipped out of Root’s lips sent a current down Shaw’s core. “Would you like that?”

 

“Yes,” Shaw almost moaned, one hand fisting Martine’s blonde curls, holding her against her as her other hand continued to claw at her own neck.

 

On the other side of the line, Root’s heavy breathing only intensified. “I like knives,” the words pulled a quiet moan out of Shaw; “matches, ropes...” Root exhaled loudly and Shaw felt the thrumming inside becoming wild, something pulling and pushing all the same, and she shut her eyes again, ignoring Martine’s looks, hands and hair so wrong.

 

“Are you close?” two voices asked at the same time and Shaw groaned into the phone. Root laughed lightly; “I can’t believe you’re grumpy even now,” she teased, and between Shaw’s legs Martine’s tongue returned to her clit.

 

“Root,” Shaw insisted, frustrated even though the fingers inside her were rushing in and out almost painfully.

 

Root’s smile, infuriating through the phone, only worsened her annoyance. “I know, I know,” she continued, “give me time to get there too.”

 

Somehow, the thought of Root touching herself was enough and Shaw came then, almost surprised, one hand still digging into her neck, sure to leave another mark. Her other fingers were still wrapped around Martine’s blonde curls and Shaw quickly let go, almost shaking. The warmth inside was turning bitter in her throat, and the pain in her lungs bit deeper.

 

Martine lifted her head from between Shaw’s legs, smirking. “Well, that’s done, then,” she smiled, one hand disconnecting the call while the other wiped her mouth.

 

“You’re sick,” Shaw groaned, pulling her pants back up to her knees even though she worried for a second that she wouldn’t be able to stay up on her feet for long, the drumming in her ears making her nauseous.

 

“Am I?” Martine laughed, straightening her clothes before she ran a hand through her hair. She had just reached the door when she turned around, winking. “Oh, I do hope she didn’t hear me.”

 

Shaw didn’t care much for the door closing behind Martine. Lead fell down her stomach, a strange burning down her throat, and her lips tingling as if she had been poisoned.

 

She didn’t call Root back.


	3. Chapter 3

Shaw tried to avoid Root’s latest injury, but every now and then Root hissed and Shaw’s arousal only fired up. Exhausted and slightly drugged up, Root’s movements were slow as she smiled, Shaw’s lips trekking down her skin.

 

“Shaw,” she tried to get her attention, but Shaw ignored her.

 

There was a burning fire deep inside her stomach, something like fury or panic when she imagined losing Root, that didn’t mix well with the hate that burst within her at the thought of Martine. She felt nauseous every time the name appeared in her mind, unwelcomed and offensive. It was, after all, Martine’s gun that had shot Root, Martine’s bullets that had tore the skin apart, burned the flesh and shredded the ligaments of Root’s forearm.

 

Martine who, only days before, had her head between Shaw’s legs, tongue darting and fingers teasing just like Shaw was now; listening to Root’s scarce breaths and tasting her for the first time, eyes closed as she felt Root’s muscles bending with pleasure. On each side of her, Root’s heels pressed down on the mattress, and Shaw’s free hand ran up her ankle delicately, kneading the calf before caressing her thigh.

 

“Stop being so soft on me,” Root complained, squirming under Shaw and pulling at her hair.

 

Shaw tried to listen to that inferno inside, that anger that was always raging, but she find she couldn’t, not when Root laid in front of her, bare but for the bandages over her injuries. There were bruises on her, both old and new, that Shaw had known nothing about, and she understood very well what Root wanted; for Shaw to add her own. To mark her.

 

But there was a worry nested in Shaw’s throat and she couldn’t get past it. She kissed Root’s inner thigh and trekked up Root’s body, licking the contusions she found on the way, and Root took it as teasing.

 

When she finally reached Root’s lips, Shaw bit down hard, but even that didn’t seem to erase the confusion Shaw felt she was drowning in, and that translated into a frown on Root’s traits. There was a glint of anxiety in Root’s eyes, and no matter how hard she tried, Shaw couldn’t ignore it.

 

“I never picked you as gentle,” Root insisted, her good hand running down Shaw’s back, nails drawing little red lines here and there.

 

“I’m not,” Shaw groaned, although the proofs were there. She had been careful and slow, had kissed and licked every inch of Root as if she was a work of art. “But you’ve been shot twice in the last twenty-four hours.”

 

Root shook her head. “I don’t think that’s it,” she sighed, her voice wavering. “Did Harold tell you something?”

 

He had. Shaw remembered it all too well. Something about wars and sacrifices that had to be made, and Shaw’s stomach twisted every time she remembered the line. As a soldier she knew all too well what happened in wars, and now the battlefield spread everywhere around them, invisible and deadly.

 

Shaw didn’t like to think of Root as a soldier. “No, he didn’t say anything.”

 

And yet two bullets had crashed into Root, fired from the gun of a woman Shaw had fucked more than once, and Shaw wasn’t sure how the same fingers that had made Martine come could now mark Root as if she was hers.

 

“Then what?” Root asked again, only to find Shaw’s teeth digging into her neck, shutting her up. She gasped in surprise and bucked her hips and Shaw forced herself to concentrate on what she was doing, to forget everything outside of this cheap motel room.

 

Shutting everything out as best she could, Shaw pressed herself between Root’s legs, feeling her burning wild against her skin. She let her anger consume her as her hands explored Root’s body again, nails digging, ignoring the moans of both pain and pleasure that came from under her. Shaw kept her eyes on Root’s bare skin, on the movements of her hips and the way the muscles of her neck tensed every time Shaw hurt her.

 

She slipped two fingers inside Root without a warning and heard another gasp as Root’s good hand pressed hard on her back, trying to get Shaw even closer.

 

Shaw looked up to Root’s face then, finding a tooth discoloring her lower lip, her eyes tight shut, the traits inexplicably relaxed. She thought of how she had never seen Root like this before, _opened_ and Shaw didn’t feel like rushing it anymore. She calmed the rhythm of her fingers and her tongue trailed along Root’s collarbone, Root’s sweat adding the faintest taste of salt in her mouth. At the corner of her eyes she noticed that scar on Root’s shoulder, that pale mark that Shaw’s own bullet had left years before and she kissed it fervently, her breath rushing down Root’s skin as Shaw felt something she should not have felt.

 

That Root was hers.

 

“Shaw,” Root protested, her hand turned into a fist, and hitting Shaw’s ribs, “stop that.”

 

Swallowing hard, Shaw moved to hover above Root, their eyes meeting.

 

“Stop what?” she groaned, even though she knew what Root meant.

 

Root rolled her eyes. “What’s going on with you?”

 

Shaw frowned, yet found herself unable to stop the words. “It’s our first time, I thought–” she stopped there, realising what she had just said, and surprise mixed with trepidation on Root’s face for a second, before she could compose herself.

 

Root whispered her name with the softest voice and Shaw’s anger returned, beating wild in her heart as she vowed to erase what she had just admitted unwillingly – that there would be other times; that this meant something. It couldn’t.

 

“It’s okay,” Root continued, her hand rising to cup Shaw’s cheek. “I know.”

 

But Root didn’t know. She didn’t know what Shaw had done, what she would keep doing because Martine was a good fuck, and because being with her was the best way to forget that storm inside her every time she thought of Root.

 

Shaw shook her head. “Don’t,” she grunted, taking in the sight of Root’s injuries, of the scars that marked her skin and of which Shaw knew so little.

 

She forced herself to find Root’s eyes again, those pools of water that threatened to drown her and Shaw stared, her voice turning cold in her throat even before she spoke.

 

“You’re wrong,” Shaw felt the words sinking into Root like daggers. “About me, about this.”

 

She realised her fingers were still inside Root, unmoving and warm, unbearably warm, and her wrist unwillingly twitched. Root moaned quietly, her good hand reaching for Shaw’s forearm and insisting.

 

“Maybe I am,” Root flashed a smile, even though her eyes were sad, so terribly sad and Shaw knew she had caused just as much pain as Martine’s bullets. “But you’re not going to leave a girl like that, are you?”

 

Shaw wanted nothing but to leave, to disappear in the night and forget about this cheap hotel, about this war that hovered above them both like Damocles’ sword, about Martine and, most of all, about Root. Root who smelled impossibly enticing, even in the damp air of the bedroom, Root who teased, who pushed and pulled, who promised violence and the soothing afterwards; Root who had snaked her way inside Shaw and refused to let go.

 

In the back of her mind, something told Shaw that if she did it, if she made Root come tonight, she would never be able to forget that voice, that low moan that would speak her name, Shaw knew, and she couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t hear that whispered _Sameen_ that would haunt her until the bullet that was meant to kill her finally found her.

 

Root’s expression had turned to angry. “Shaw,” she said her name differently, like it was a reproach, and Shaw blinked.

 

“I have to go,” she pulled her fingers out of Root roughly, wiping her hand and her mouth on the bed sheets before she slipped on her clothes in a rush. She expected Root to say something, and yet she didn’t. She didn’t move to pull Shaw back onto the bed either, and that unsettled Shaw, a pinch of hurt burned in her chest like she wanted Root to push and pull again, just this once.

 

Shaw closed the motel’s bedroom door behind her, trying to keep her eyes away from the bed and yet she didn’t miss that last glimpse of Root, sitting on the mattress with one hand wrapped around her knees. A naked mess of limbs that Shaw knew for a fact were still throbbing with need, pulsing with desire. A desperate beacon of heat and light in the middle of this cold night.

 

And all because of her.


	4. Chapter 4

With her wrists forcefully held behind in her back, Shaw couldn’t stop the cement parapet from digging into her lower stomach, sending currents of pain up her spine. There were many ways she could get out of that humiliating position, staring down the ten stories building with a faint worry nested in her gut, but once she had smelled Root’s perfume, she had stopped fighting against Root’s hold.

 

There was an edge to Root’s words, sharpness in each of her movements as she pushed against Shaw’s body, threatening to send her over the edge.

 

“Morning, Shaw,” she purred in Shaw’s ear, a maniac glee seeping through the words.

 

She forced Shaw to turn around then, pressing her body against her and crashing their lips violently. Root’s teeth sank into her until she drew blood and then she licked at the cut, a wicked smile on her traits.

 

“We don’t have much time,” she added before Shaw could say anything, unzipping Shaw’s pants and shoving her hand inside unceremoniously.

 

Shaw flinched, knowing Root had found her ready. “What are you doing?” she groaned, closing her eyes when Root’s index scraped the skin beside her clit. Her hands immediately came to rest on Root’s waist as if they belonged there, and she cursed herself for not stopping them.

 

“I think it’s obvious,” Root mocked, biting down Shaw neck before her tongue ran all the way up to her ear. “Don’t you?”

 

Her chest tightened as she remembered the last time she had seen Root, wounded and so terribly warm on that motel’s bed, where Shaw hadn’t been able to quiet the storm inside, hadn’t been able to stay. Root showed no traces of it, just like her injuries had healed in the past month, now invisible – yet Shaw knew the pain would still be there, firing up the nerves at the oddest moments.

 

The cold morning air hit her with whiffs of Root’s perfume as Root’s hand teased more than she pleased, never quite touching where Shaw needed her.

 

“Root,” she groaned in protest, and Root pressed herself a little bit closer, forcing Shaw to lean back on the parapet of the ten-story building. Root’s smirk changed to a more serious expression as her fingernails dug on Shaw’s labia, the sudden pain making Shaw’s eyes water.

 

“Do you know why She chose me?” Root whispered against Shaw’s jawbone, her tongue darting before it ran down her neck. Shaw shivered at the sensation, feeling Root’s right foot kicking against her left boot until it slipped under it.

 

The autumn wind blew even wilder than before, cold and harsh against her cheeks, and her coat stuck with Root’s uncomfortably. “Why?” Shaw hissed, Root’s thumb pressing hard on her clit, sending waves of pleasure across her nerves, numbing the ache of the constant burning inside Shaw’s lungs.

 

“She chose me,” Root let the words linger, her left shoe suddenly jammed under Shaw’s right boot, and Shaw’s weight ended up resting almost entirely on the parapet, the seemingly frozen cement scraping her lower back as she moved her hips against Root’s hand. “Because I am good at reading people.”

 

Root’s fingers entered Shaw then, rough and relentless. Shaw bit down her lip, Root’s mouth sucking on her pulse point as she brought her close to orgasm and slowed down. Shaw grunted, and Root’s voice turned cold.

 

“Very good at it, actually,” she continued, her other hand fisting the front of Shaw’s coat, holding her tight as if she was afraid she was going to fall. Shaw’s hands gripped the top of the parapet, knuckles whitening as Root’s fingers curled inside her. “Irritatingly so,” Root bit down Shaw’s neck and just as she felt Shaw’s muscles tightening around her, she pulled out her digits.

 

Breathing scarce, Shaw closed her eyes, the height of the building and the sunlight on her skin making her heart beat unruly, her chest aching almost deliciously.

 

“Put your hands behind your back,” Root asked, and Shaw frowned. “Come on Shaw, we don’t have all morning,” Root protested.

 

Shaw swallowed hard as she obeyed, surrendering quietly. With her ass on the parapet and her hands behind her she felt the height even more keenly, almost giving her vertigo as she imagined her body falling down the ten stories. Root’s fingers slipped inside her again, slender and unforgiving, hurting and pleasing at the same time. With the both of them still fully clothed Root didn’t have much leniency, and yet she moved in and out of Shaw as if unrestrained.

 

To feel her more, Shaw leaned back slightly, feeling the void underneath her as her muscles tightened, the tension uncomfortable as she tried to ensure she wouldn’t fall. Her neck ached first, her jaw clenched so hard she almost had trouble breathing, and then her abs flared up as if on fire. Yet she held herself inclined, closing her eyes and focusing on Root’s fingers inside her, warm and rough, like she always thought they would be.

 

Shaw breathed in deeply, a quiet peace settling inside as if she had finally found the eye of the storm. The hand that rested on her coat suddenly pushed against her chest, holding Shaw up by fisting the fabric harder, forcing Shaw to dangerously hang above the empty space. The shock emptied Shaw’s lungs in one painful flash and Shaw’s hands reached for the parapet by instinct.

 

“Hands behind your back,” Root ordered with a cold voice. Shaw took a long breath to slow her heartbeat, staring into Root’s eyes as she slowly returned her hands behind her, knowing oh so well that if Root chose to do so, she could send Shaw flying down to her death in one twist of the wrist.

 

Somehow the thought aroused Shaw even more and Root’s fingers encouraged her, finally moving with Shaw’s rhythm, a thumb grazing her clit every now and then.

 

“You see, that’s how I know you like putting yourself danger,” Root continued as if she was holding a conference and it sent a flash of annoyance across Shaw’s traits. “And that, Shaw,” Root pushed her down even more and Shaw’s heart skipped a beat, hearing the sound of the street ten stories below, slowly waking up. Car horns and roaring engines didn’t stop Root’s voice from reaching her above the blazing wind; “is how I know you’ve been fucking the enemy.”

 

Shaw searched Root’s face for traces of hurt, sadness, anger, and yet she found nothing but a severe mask of calm and she glanced at the hand fisting her coat, the white knuckles that kept her up there and alive, knowing similar fingers moved into her and she gasped when Root’s lips curled into a smile.

 

“Are you enjoying yourself, Shaw?”

 

Below someone screamed and Shaw blinked.

 

“Nobody’s seen _you_ ,” Root’s voice, low and threatening, only turned her on even more as she struggled against her instinct to reach for safety. “Yet,” Root remarked.

 

The fingers inside Shaw stilled. “Why her?”

 

The interrogation made Shaw nauseous as she contemplated the answer, having asked herself that same question for weeks. Shaw didn’t know why it kept happening, why she kept fucking with Martine every time she ran into her; it just did. She shook her head as she told that to Root, noticing the way Root averted her eyes at the mention of Martine’s name, how the corner of her mouth twitched when Shaw was done talking.

 

“Why not me?”

 

The three words hung between them, quiet and yet so heavy that Shaw thought she was already falling to her death, except she wasn’t. She gasped when Root pulled her back on the roof roughly, the fabric of her coat digging into her back from the sheer violence of the movement. Root’s fingers were pulled out of her roughly just before she pushed Shaw away from her, the surprise making Shaw stumble a few steps back. The gravel of the roof crunched under Shaw’s combat boots, reassuring her that she was safe, except she felt nothing but.

 

“Well I hope she’s a great fuck,” Root swiped her hand on her jeans like she was disgusted.

 

She left the roof without another word and yet Shaw smelled her perfume still, lingering in the morning air like a ghost.


	5. Chapter 5

The alleyway was dark, but under the orange light of the lamp post Martine’s blonde hair seemed on fire, and Shaw thought for a second that it was a warning. She didn’t listen to it, and bit down Martine’s lower lip instead.

“How do you want to go about this?” she pushed Shaw against the brick wall, a manic glimpse in her eye, and Shaw knew there was no point in answering that question. “In chronological order?”

She laughed as Shaw ignored her, undoing her own belt, angry eyes locked on Martine. “Can’t you just shut up for once?”

But she knew she wouldn’t. It was a mistake just asking for Martine to stop, because then she had all the more reason to go on. Shaw understood how she worked and still got trapped; she wondered how that had come to be.

Martine had a wicked expression on her that night, like she had just choke someone to death and was eager to do it again. “Aren’t you dying to know who was her first? How old she was?”

She had been talking about Root ever since she had followed Shaw down that alleyway, and if Shaw didn’t know better, she would’ve started wondering if there was something to it. Then again, Martine looked crazier than usual and ready to burn down a city, and that blurred Shaw’s thoughts with arousal.

Instead of telling her to shut up once again, Shaw pulled on Martine’s leather jacket and crashing their lips together. Martine’s tongue darted inside her, bold and careless and no matter how much she tried, Shaw couldn’t imagine that it was someone else. Not this time; it was all Martine, all down to the red nail polish.

Martine’s hand slipped under Shaw’s sweater, scratching the skin just above her hipbone before she ran her palm up Shaw’s side. “I like alphabetical,” she whispered in Shaw’s hair, humming as her knee pressed against Shaw’s thigh, forcing her legs apart. She pressed her waist against Shaw’s, the brick wall scraping Shaw’s coat. “It’s neat.”

Shaw dug her fingers just above Martine’s hips, urging her on.

Martine continued to tease her, fingers running over Shaw’s bra as she smiled “Or maybe I could just pick at random,” she smirked.

She slipped her other hand into Shaw’s pants then, eyes glowing. “Let’s see, there was that physics professor,” Martine purred, leaning down to whisper in Shaw’s ear; “oh, you have no idea how Sam Groves enjoyed physics.”

The name stung hurtfully in Shaw’s chest, a pain that was very far from the delicious hurt Martine could give her, when she felt like it. Shaw pushed her off roughly, punching her hard enough to cut her lip. Martine’s eyes gleamed as she brushed a finger against the wound.

“That’s right, I forgot you don’t want me to say her name,” she laughed, and pressed Shaw against the wall once more. “I’m so, so sorry,” she pouted.

Annoyed, Shaw still had eyes only for the cut on Martine’s lip, still glistening with blood. She groaned as she leaned forward, tasting the copper taste of Martine on her tongue, and her arousal fired up.

Martine hissed when Shaw sucked over the wound, a weakened sound Shaw had never pulled from her before.

She felt a bit smug when she added, head resting against the brick wall; “you’re lying, there’s no way you can know that type of things.”

“I know enough,” Martine smirked, her hand returning to Shaw’s labia, taunting her with her cold fingers. “What I do not know, however,” she started, and chuckled lightly when she realised she had Shaw’s full attention, “is how.”

One finger slipped inside Shaw, and she started rocking against Martine, her hands holding her steady by holding onto the brick wall behind her. The little rocks dug into her palm, a quiet pain that offered some relief.

“I searched,” Martine said like a promise, “but I just couldn’t find anything.”

She added another digit and Shaw closed her eyes. Lips came to suck at her neck and she didn’t argue this time, didn’t insist for more. Shaw suddenly felt exhausted and cold as Martine leaned against her, her body warm and enticing.

“No amateur video filmed ‘just to see what it’s like’,” Martine continued, mocking, her teeth sinking into Shaw’s skin almost gently. “No nude pictures sent to a long distance lover.”

Martine fastened her rhythm and Shaw felt her hunger growing inside, the need for release screaming inside her limbs, making her breathing scarce and almost painful. “And no surveillance camera catching her in the act.”

Something about the way Martine said it made Shaw’s stomach turned. She had checked the shadow map, she knew there weren’t any cameras filming this alleyway. That was why she had come here with Martine to begin with. She flicked her eyes open, and noticed the smirk on Martine’s face.

“Well I thought you wanted her to get more involved in our... activities,” Martine pressed harder and Shaw shook her head, but she couldn’t find it in herself to say anything, just like she couldn’t stop grinding against Martine’s hand.

“I don’t-,” she was cut off by a wave of pleasure running across her nerves, and knew she was close.

“Say her name,” Martine ordered wickedly, increasing her pace.

Shaw closed her eyes, her two hands scraping against the brick wall, the flesh almost raw from the continuous chafing. Martine continued to move between her legs, relentless.

“Say her name for me, Shaw,” Martine repeated in a low voice, her thumb brushing against Shaw’s clit. 

Shaw tried her best to slow it down, but it seemed to take her by surprise, the orgasm spreading through her limbs and cutting off the air in her chest, and it fell from her lips then, sacred and now defiled, “Root.”

Martine smiled almost warmly. “Such a silly name,” she whispered, shaking her head, before she grabbed a fistful of Shaw’s hair and smashed her head on the brick wall violently, rendering her unconscious.

Shaw barely heard the sounds of Martine’ heels clinking against the wet asphalt of the alleyway, as she walked away.

When Shaw woke up later, she had a bitter taste in her mouth, and she figured she had bit herself when she had fallen to the ground. Her clothes were wet and cold, and she heard someone breathing just above her. She moved quickly, pulling out her knife from her boot just as she shifted to a sitting position. The rapid movement made her nauseous and she winced when she recognised Root standing in front of her.

“Your zipper’s down,” Root pointed coldly, and Shaw blinked, bringing a hand to her hair and feeling the blood that had spilled. The gash didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, but she felt weakened nonetheless. 

She zipped up her pants and struggled to get back up, but didn’t dare ask for Root’s help. As soon as she managed to get on her feet, Root pushed her against the wall, exactly where Martine had fucked her not so long ago. Root’s hands roamed her thighs and slipped into her pockets, pulling out Shaw’s wallet and her cell phone.

Still standing close, almost leaning into Shaw, Root opened the wallet and took out some of its cash. With Root’s scent suddenly all over her, Shaw blinked slowly, trying to ignore the desire to tug Root even closer, to taste her lips once more. Root placed Shaw’s wallet into the back pocket of her jeans, and then shoved the money into Shaw’s hand.

“Take a taxi to the nearest hospital,” she instructed. “Say you’ve been mugged.”

Her eyes flicked down Shaw’s sweater for a second before she pulled away, quick to leave Shaw behind, but Shaw followed anyway.

“Root,” she started, but then lost what she wanted to say. There was no way to make up for what she had done, no way to explain it really. Her head throbbed in pain and her throat tightened.

“What, Shaw?” Root asked furiously, and Shaw flinched when she returned close to her, dangerously close. “Do you want a gold medal for saying my name instead of hers?”

Shaw swallowed hard, toying with the knife in her hand like she was embarrassed. “I didn’t know there was a camera.”

Root laughed bitterly, and it constricted Shaw’s chest, making it impossible to breathe. “Well that makes it all better, doesn’t it?”

She left without another word.

Shivering and stunned, Shaw made it to the street slowly, her body turning numb as she hailed herself a cab, eager to put distance between herself and that alleyway. She hid the knife in her boot as she slipped into the car’s backseat and closed her eyes, thinking of Root’s name falling from her lips, and cursing hers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little head's up; this is a violent chapter. If you're not up for it, wait for the next chapter; I'll make sure that you can understand what's happened even without reading this one.

Her heart was pumping the adrenaline so fast, it seemed like its frantic rhythm was all that existed, now. Root opened the metal door of the staircase, noticing the blood drops going down. She smirked, heading the same way quickly, her feet barely touching the steps. It felt like she wasn’t Root anymore, like she was nothing but the gun in her hand and that loud thump, thump in her ear. _Hunting_ , she thought. She had never really understood the appeal, until now.

 

“Give me your position,” she heard Shaw’s voice routed through her implant, distant despite the panic. She wished the Machine had listened to her and cut the communication; Shaw only distracted her from her objective. She saw a faint line of blood on the wall, spread by Martine’s wounded shoulder, Root guessed, and the rush came back.

 

She heard the hurt operative one flight of stairs down; the heavy breathing, her leather jacket brushing against the cement walls, a short hiss of pain as Martine opened the door leading to the underground garage. Root smirked; there was no way Martine could get out of there, not with the injuries Root had inflicted earlier.

 

There was a bolt of pain running all the way up her spine every time she let her weight fall on her left leg. It started at the thigh where Martine’s bullet had lodged itself and blasted up her nerves, the ache throbbing and relentless. Root didn’t mind; she revelled on the rush and urged her body forward, ignoring the wound just like she didn’t listen to Shaw’s voice in her ear, asking for an update on her situation.

 

Root’s heart skipped a beat when she reached the door, heavy and cold against her shoulder as she pushed it open. Martine’s fist landed on her jaw as soon as she stepped through the threshold, the jab quick and painful, emptying Root’s lungs in a second.

 

“I’ve been waiting a long time to do that,” Martine smirked, but Root wasn’t fooled by her newfound courage. Root’s bullets had found their mark earlier, and Martine was bleeding out her left arm and her right side.

 

“Me too,” Root grinned, not hesitating one second to punch Martine’s stomach just over the wound she had inflicted. Her knuckles met with a sweater drenched with warm blood, and it made Root slightly nauseous.

 

Martine cried out in pain, a short and sharp yell as she bent at the waist. Root stared at the red stain on her hand and wiped it against her pants furiously.

 

“Root? What’s going on?” Shaw repeated again in Root’s ear. Routed through her implant it sounded like Shaw was in Root’s head, really, and it only fueled Root’s rage as she punched Martine a second time, the jawbone bruising her fist as she felt the skin crack.

 

The rush was blissful as Martine tumbled backwards. The feeling of victory didn’t leave Root, even when Martine smirked, her hand meeting with the new cut on her lip, a bit of blood on the tip of her fingers.

 

“Feeling better now?” Martine mocked, but before Root had time to answer she reached for the knife in her boot, pointing it towards Root with a wicked grin.

 

Unlike Martine, Root still had her gun, with two bullets in – she had counted herself, the Machine unable to back her up this time. She glanced at the firearm, and then back at Martine, making her decision.

 

“A little bit, yeah,” Root admitted. The sight of Martine’s blood slowly pooling under her feet made Root feel more alive than she had in weeks. She shoved the gun behind her back, metal digging into her lower back as it pressed against her, secured in place by her belt.

 

Martine didn’t seem fazed by the noble gesture. “You know, I heard you were a bit of a goody two shoes,” she closed her fists, silently inviting Root to make the first move.

 

Root only smiled. With her blood-stained clothes and under the blinking neon lights, Martine looked like a rabid dog waiting to be put down. “You think I want this fight to be fair?” Root shook her head like she was disappointed, and perhaps she was. It hadn’t been that hard to track Martine down once she had set her mind to it. “I just want to beat you to a pulp.”

 

She noticed a glint of surprise in Martine’s eyes and her stance tensing up, like she was finally taking this fight seriously. When she lunged forward, knife drawn out, Root stepped aside quickly, grabbing Martine’s arm and locking it under hers. She smirked as she bent Martine’s elbow backwards, pulling another hiss out of her.

 

Martine’s other hand punched Root’s ribs hard enough to cut her air for a moment, the pain both surprising and welcomed; Root felt the adrenaline kicking in once again, the feeling of her lungs overflowing and her muscles tingling.

 

“I should’ve guessed you’d have similar tastes,” Martine purred and Root pushed her against a wall, feeling Martine’s hand clutching on her clothes, trying to stay up despite the quick movement.

 

Root sighed. “I really thought you were something else, you know?” she sounded angrier than she wanted to and she cursed her exhaustion for it. Blood trickled down her thigh slowly and made her shiver, or perhaps it was the way Shaw begged her to answer, to talk to her, to say something, anything.

 

Instead, she fisted Martine’s hair and looked at her eyes widening before Root crashed her head on the wall. It made a strange cracking sound and Root wondered if the skull had fractured on impact. By the way Martine stared at her now with blurred eyes, Root hoped for at least a concussion.

 

She pushed Martine to the side, looking as she tumbled on her own limbs and fell down on the asphalt, barely a shell of what she had been before. When they had started this Martine had been quick and dangerous, sharp, even. She had almost gotten Root more than once, had managed to shoot her too, but this broken down woman wasn’t much of a threat.

 

“You can’t kill her,” Shaw pleaded for what seemed like the hundredth time.

 

Root walked closer to Martine, swallowing hard as her heart continued to race. “Who says I can’t?” she asked, glaring down on Martine. She looked smaller now, weak and broken. Her lips weren’t curled up and her eyes were closed, and Root wondered for a moment if that was what she looked like when she slept.

 

It was a strange thought, and Root didn’t like it one bit.

 

She kicked Martine’s shoulder hard, forcing her to lie on her back instead of her side. Martine didn’t try to leave then; she stared at Root as coldly as she could, waiting for her bullet to end her life.

 

Root drew out her gun.

 

“Root, don’t do this,” Shaw repeated. “We don’t kill.”

 

She snarled; “why don’t we kill, Shaw?” Her voice echoed in the empty underground parking lot, furious and tired. Martine didn’t flinch.

 

“It’s just not what we do,” the voice returned in her implant, warm and familiar, but Root didn’t feel like listening to her.

 

“Seems to me that if we had killed before,” Root shook her head; it seemed like forever ago they were ordered to kill that congressman, “we might not be in this situation.”

 

“Root,” Shaw said too gently, and it reminded Root of that night in a motel’s bedroom, that night Shaw had touched her so softly that it had crawled into her skin and burned in her chest, and Root didn’t like to think back to that moment, especially now. Her throat tightened and she stared at Martine, blinding fury raging inside her chest. “Please don’t kill her.”

 

It sent a bolt of pain through her heart and Root gasped, the gun suddenly heavy in her hand as she aimed at Martine’s head. She had to die, Root thought, she just had to. She shifted uneasily on her feet, noticing the curiosity slowly twisting Martine’s traits.

 

“Are you there?” Shaw asked and she sounded so far away.

 

Root’s finger curled up on the trigger.

 

Shaw’s erratic breathing came like a whisper in her implant.

 

Root swallowed hard, and pulled the trigger twice.


	7. Chapter 7

Hands covered in blood, Shaw plunged her arms elbow-deep into the industrial sink. She heard nothing but the water running, stifling hot against her skin, and barely lifted her head when she felt more than saw Root standing in the doorway.

 

“She’ll make it,” she muttered, turning off the faucet. She didn’t know how to feel about Root right now; she had been angry before, while she pulled out bullets out of Martine and sutured her wounds. Now that Martine was stabilised, now that Shaw wasn’t really busy, she could find the frustration anymore.

 

It had left an empty space behind, like a giant gap in the middle of her gut. It didn’t bleed half as much as Martine had – that thought left her bitter, and tired.

 

Root didn’t answer. She walked inside the room and stared at the unconscious blonde like she was seeing her for the first time, and in a way, Shaw realised, they both were.

 

Comatose, Martine looked oddly peaceful. Nothing at all like the woman who had tried to kill Root, who had fucked Shaw so many times that she didn’t dare count. Always so violent, and angry – now she seemed like it was another person entirely, that laid on the makeshift bed in the underground station.

 

An innocent woman; and perhaps Martine had been one, once.

 

“I wanted to kill her,” Root confessed without guilt, her gaze still locked on Martine, as if studying her breathing pattern.

 

Shaw glanced at her before she averted her eyes to the floor. “I know,” she breathed out. She could understand the impulse, the rage, and yet she hadn’t wanted Root to kill Martine. Not that she cared all that much whether she lived or died, but because she couldn’t let Root add blood on her hands.

 

And yet, she couldn’t stop herself from wondering; “why didn’t you?”

 

Root shrugged. “I just wanted to _hurt_ her more,” she answered, a strange frown curling her lips. “Dead people don’t feel pain.”

 

Something tugged at Shaw’s heart, and put a veil on her heart. It was like having a cloud of smoke preventing her from seeing clearly and she shook her head, blaming the exhaustion. She had sweated and stressed over Martine’s body for hours, pulling her from death with a determination she hadn’t shown since her failed residency.

 

Because it was her fault.

 

Yes, Martine was the enemy and yes, Root would’ve shot her anyway. But it was Shaw’s weakness that had brought them there, Shaw’s constant fucking up that had nearly added to the long list of Root’s crimes.

 

A list that she knew, somehow, was never really far from Root’s mind. Passed the bravado, passed the mild psychosis, Root had a beating, wounded heart, and Shaw had lashed at it one time too many.

 

That mess was on her. Not Martine.

 

“You were worried for her,” Root stated, and Shaw shook her head, because she hadn’t been thinking about Martine at all, then.

 

She had cared only for Root, to a point that made her so uncomfortable, she’d never be able to find the words.

 

And it certainly wasn’t something Root wanted to hear.

 

“What,” Root challenged, disdain marking her every syllable, “aren’t you going to tell me you were thinking about the mission?”

 

The room was too small, and Shaw was in a dire need of fresh air and a shower. She moved towards the exit, but Root stepped in her path, threatening. “Cat got your tongue?” she questioned bitterly.

 

When Shaw pushed her aside, faint dots of red appeared on Root’s white blouse – traces of Martine’s blood she hadn’t properly washed down the drain. She swallowed hard at the sight of her pale fingerprints.

 

Blinking, she realised the awkward angle of Root’s posture; the strained expression. “You got hurt,” she whispered, frowning.

 

She knew that – had heard the entire fight through the comms. But she had forgotten, as focused as she was on saving Martine’s life. And for what? Information?

 

Redemption?

 

Both didn’t seem likely at this point.

 

“Let me,” Shaw insisted, her eyes falling on Root’s arm, and the way she clutched at it.

 

“I’m alright,” Root argued, an angry cloud darkening her eyes. Shaw could see right through the lies, and Root knew it – but she wouldn’t bend. “I don’t need you.”

 

The truth of it ached at Shaw’s chest, as if a claw had ripped her torso open. She took a step back and nodded. “Sure, yeah,” she agreed. Biting on her lower lip, she still tried; “maybe I could just tie it up for the road.”

 

There was a hesitation in Root’s step before she cleared her throat. “Fine,” she surrendered. She spared Martine a glance, and Shaw shrugged; “she’s not going anywhere.”

 

At that, a self-satisfied smirk curled up Root’s lips just before she walked out, Shaw in tow. Their footsteps echoed on the station’s cold walls, and it didn’t take Shaw very long to realise where Root was taking her.

 

It wasn’t a good idea, she could tell by the way her instincts screamed to stop. Yet she didn’t say anything when Root opened the door to her improvised bedroom, and plopped down on the bed like they were two teenagers having a sleepover, ready to share gossip.

 

“Do I make you nervous?” Root asked.

 

_Yes_ , Shaw wanted to answer – _fuck, yes_. She remembered the rooftop, Root nearly letting her fall to death, and took in a sharp breath. But this Root, she tried to convince herself, this threatening, madly angered Root was easier to deal with than the one who loved Shaw.

 

The one who would’ve given her life for her.

 

The thought sickened her.

 

“I’m tired,” Shaw replied instead, reaching for her settee where she always kept an emergency kit. There, she knew she’d find enough bandages to create a makeshift sling for Root’s arm. And maybe, if Root let her, enough disinfectant to take care of her wounds.

 

“Saving lives really takes it out of you,” Root mocked harshly.

 

She wasn’t wrong, though. The constant focus it had required of her had made her weary, and the more Root tested her patience, the more the void inside Shaw’s guts filled with hot lava.

 

Shaw couldn’t help but shake her head. “Root,” she breathed out her name like a white flag.

 

It only flared up Root’s frustration.

 

But Shaw didn’t expect to find Root’s lips crashing against her, the violent gesture followed by fingernails digging in her skull. Root bit at the lip without restraint and Shaw hissed, for once not finding the pain arousing. It felt strangely closer to a punch than a kiss, and when she tried to pull away, Root’s hand insisted.

 

“We shouldn’t,” Shaw managed to whisper, her forehead pressed against Root’s so roughly she wondered if her skin had reddened, or if it would bruise.

 

Root laughed; “that much is obvious.”

 

When she leaned in again Shaw finally pushed her off, a bolt of electricity flashing through her chest as Root winced in pain. One hand instinctively reaching for her dislocated shoulder, Root’s eyes filled with tears. “Fuck you, Shaw,” she shook her head.

 

This time, it wasn’t bitter or angry – it was strained and quiet.

 

“I hate this,” Root whispered next.

 

Shaw refused to admit the same, her heart beating loudly, rushing as if still pumping the adrenaline that had kept her going so far. Outside, she guessed, the sun was rising over the city – a new day, starting.

 

And all she wanted was to sleep.

 

When Root left seconds later, Shaw realised she had been missing the biggest part of that truth.

 

Because for the first time in her life, she didn’t want to sleep alone.


	8. Chapter 8

There was the disgusting taste of iron in the back of Root’s mouth; like swallowing blood, her throat seemed coated with the stuff. And yet she had turned down Finch’s offer of freshly-brewed tea; avoiding conversation at all costs, she had rushed here, down the empty corridor where they had buried their prisoner.

 

It seemed appropriate that she would imagine the taste of blood now of all times; now that she was staring at the woman she had nearly killed, only a few days before.

 

At the sight of a brownish bruise on Martine’s cheek Root smiled; her lips curling upwards ever so slightly, for the first time in what seemed like weeks, and what felt like years.

 

She hadn’t pictured that Martine would still be sleeping – Finch had swore that she had regained consciousness since Root had brought her in. Not that she had imagined the scene often; keeping busy, Root had nursed her own wounds while doing her best to forget about Martine and Shaw and even the rest of them. Had pretended that she had been in this fight against Samaritan for the Machine, above all.

 

Had tried to forget how important it had been to her, this dream of keeping them all safe.

 

Of keeping _Shaw_ safe from harm.

 

How stupid she had been.

 

The bitter taste, she could almost forget. No, what bothered her most, as she watched Martine’s chest waving peacefully like short and relentless tides, what nearly kept Root from breathing, was this freezing rod piercing through her from throat to waist – an imagined pole that forced her to stay straight up, that prevented her from sleeping.

 

A cold hard perch that had attached itself to her spine and strained what little energy she had left.

 

It begged her like Shaw’s voice had, a few days back; to strive to be a better person. To let go of her anger, of her guilt, of her hatred. Or at least, not to follow it into the pits of darkness where she so easily found her way.

 

But out there, Root wanted to shout, out there where heroes were created, where sacrifices were made, she felt blind and lost.

 

Because Root wasn’t a good person. Wasn’t even better than she had been before the Machine, really. And maybe it was all a show, this redemption she was unwittingly seeking. Just another lie she was spinning.

 

Convincing herself that she could be someone she wasn’t.

 

And perhaps that was why she couldn’t bring herself to wake Martine up. Because she had come all this way, driven by a strange madness that demanded to be quenched. It wouldn’t bend, and it wouldn’t leave, and Root needed it gone.

 

She needed answers.

 

And somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to get them from Shaw.

 

That was how she had ended up here, leaning against the door frame, shivering in the abandoned subway’s cold air. Staring at a woman she had tried – had wanted – to kill.

 

And _she_ had to audacity to look peaceful. And so very weak.

 

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Martine whispered with a broken voice, her eyes still closed.

 

She sounded tired, almost vanquished – it was too intimate.

 

Root cleared her throat. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she cooed with just enough condescension to quiet her inner turmoil; “were you expecting someone else?”

 

Shaw’s name, unspoken, fell between them like a guillotine. All slumber left Martine’s eyes as she pushed herself off the mattress, a dash of pain clouding her gaze.

 

“Are you worried she’s come to visit me?” Martine mocked as harshly as she could manage.

 

Which wasn’t much, from what Root could tell. With bandages strapping her chest and her speech slurred with painkillers, she didn’t seem like much of a threat.

 

Not anymore.

 

“Are you worried because she hasn’t?”

 

It was a guess, but Root received confirmation when hurt flashed over Martine’s face. Fleeting, the expression betrayed her for the few seconds it lingered there; Shaw hadn’t returned to see Martine, not since she had saved her life.

 

Root wasn’t sure what it meant, and she guessed that Martine had no clue either.

 

She stepped forward, lurking closer to the bed like a predator circling around its prey, her bright smile shining above like a sharp claw hovering over a bare throat.

 

For once, Root had the advantage.

 

She could hurt her, could even kill her. There were no more voices in her ear – not the Machine’s, not Shaw’s. Only this damn spike rushing through her spine, making her feel more machine than human. Artificial, somehow.

 

When Root came to sit on the edge of the bed, one hand falling on Martine’s thigh as if they were old friends, she couldn’t help but feel relief at the sight of fear.

 

It was power that she felt rushing through her veins when Martine wet her lips almost nervously. And it didn’t matter, then, that Martine’s voice was steady and calm when she spoke.

 

All that mattered was the way her eyes darted towards the door. “Are you here to question me then?”

 

She had tried to fake annoyance, but Root wasn’t duped.

 

“I’m here to chat,” she beamed. “Our last conversation ended,” Root pouted, pretending to search for the right word, “so _abruptly_ , wouldn’t you say?”

 

Martine smiled back; a smirk that didn’t quite reach the eyes. “It could’ve been cut shorter,” she admitted. Whether it was a threat or a confession that Root would’ve killed her if _someone_ hadn’t stopped her, Root couldn’t really tell. Not that it was why she had come here, anyway. “What do you want, Ms Groves?” she pressed on the name too obviously for it to bother Root. “I’m not one for playing games.”

 

“Ah,” Root breathed out, one finger running across Martine’s damp temple, pushing a blonde curl back; “but I think you are.”

 

She squeezed on Martine’s thigh with one hand, as her finger insisted at Martine’s chin, forcing her to look up. Leaning down, the ghost of Martine’s breath danced on her lips.

 

“I think you _love_ playing games,” she continued as eyes fell on her mouth. She bit on her lower lip and watched Martine’s pupils widening.

 

Not scared, but searching for something.

 

“It’s a part of my job,” Martine confessed, “and I do love my job.”

 

It wasn’t exactly an admission of guilt, but it was something.

 

Inside, the icy pole running down Root’s spine started to melt, making her blink. She pulled apart from Martine, suddenly exhausted. Like it was draining her, to tower Martine, to try and threaten her with every move.

 

It was just as forced as Martine’s hardass routine, in the end. “What was it about?”

 

She didn’t need to add Shaw’s name in the mix or to remind Martine of her seduction act; she knew already. Maybe Martine could see it in the pain that Root suddenly felt coming off of her like waves, or in the sadness that pooled in her stomach, as if the ice that melted around her spine was made from unshed tears frozen in place.

 

“Shaw’s a good agent,” Martine shrugged. “We wanted to recruit her, at first.”

 

Root drew in a sharp breath. Expectation thrummed inside her chest, making her heart race in ways it hadn’t in a while – not since a few days before, running after Martine down a staircase.

 

With a gun in her hand, and the intent to kill.

 

“And then?” Root questioned, the hand on Martine’s thigh absently squeezing harder.

 

“Then, Ms Groves,” Martine’s hand brushed over Root’s, a warm palm keeping it in place instead of urging it away, “when I realised she had feelings for you, it was to see how far I had to push to throw her off her game.”

 

The ice around Root’s bones had turned so thin that she feared the slightest movement would break it, and she worried, somehow, that if it did shatter she wouldn’t be able to stand up again.

 

Because the taste in the back of her mouth had vanished at Martine’s words and even though Root did not want to believe them, she already knew that she did.

 

And it had no right to feel so good, and warm.

 

She couldn’t – shouldn’t – feel so strangely elated, as if she was suddenly drunk. As if a weight had been lifted from her chest, something she hadn’t imagined before, and that made her feel _alive_.

 

And all of that _now_ ; now that Root didn’t want to feel anything at all.

 

It wasn’t right.

 

She wanted the cold back, and all the numbing that came with it.

 

And yet she couldn’t stop her mind from recalling that night in a cheap motel room, when Shaw had fled the room like the whole place was threatening to crumble down on her. That night where Shaw’s hands had lingered at Root’s curves, fingers touching so gently and warmly that Root had known even then, somehow.

 

That Shaw was hers.

 

That she had tried with all her might not to be, just like Root had fought to rein her feelings under the guise of endless innuendos. That Shaw had wanted to bury it deep within, to hide it so far down that she would never see again the mark that Root had left.

 

But no matter how many scars and bruises Martine would give her, it would never cover that mark.

 

Root had heard it again, a few days ago, in the way Shaw’s voice had cracked as she was begging Root not to take a life – pleading her to be the better of herself. Because they sure as hell hadn’t been that, either of them, in so long.

 

“When did you realise you had feelings for her?” Root asked, the question strangely for her as much as it was directed towards Martine.

 

The hurt in Martine’s eyes then, she wouldn’t forget.

 

But this time, the pain didn’t bring her joy, or relief. It only made her sad, and weary.

 

“Was it her?” Martine avoided to answer, her hand almost tugging at Root’s. Weak. Nearly begging. “Was it her who asked you not to kill me?”

 

It was, but Root couldn’t bring herself to say it. She nodded before she forced herself to stand up, her throat tightened.

 

She needed to leave.

 

She had to go, now.

 

Needed to run away.

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

Martine’s words stopped her at the threshold.

 

It was in the sheer desperation behind it - like she had been hoping that Root would've ended her life, that day. But Root wasn't fooled; the instinct to survive was too strong in people like them. Monsters always found a way out.

 

It always burned inside Root, that instinct to carry on, no matter how much she tried to drown the flame.

 

“Because I’d do anything for her.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Couldn’t stay away?” Martine cooed as soon as Shaw approached her makeshift cell.

 

It was the same infuriating tone she always used all those months before, when she’d sneak up on Shaw from a dark alley or appear in the middle of a gunfight with that condescending smirk of hers. That assertive grin promised destruction – and that was exactly what Shaw had gotten out of it.

 

Instead of addressing it in irritation, however, this time Shaw ignored her question and focused on unlocking the door. She instructed Bear to guard the entrance, despite knowing full well that Martine hadn’t recovered enough to try and escape – yet. Shaw stepped in carefully nonetheless, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dimmed lighting in the room. Lying on her back with one arm behind her head, Martine almost looked unscathed, relaxed. For a second, Shaw almost worried that this was a trap – that once again Martine had the upper hand.

 

As she switched on the neon lights, the brightness burned her eyes slightly, but not enough that she’d miss the look of hurt on Martine’s face. The bruise on her face had already started to fade, but Shaw didn’t pay much attention to it; she remembered too well the shredded skin where Root’s bullets had tore their way in. That was the real injury – that was the reason Shaw was here tonight.

 

Martine barely moved, if only so she could more comfortably stare at Shaw. “It’s sweet, really,” she grinned, “but you didn’t need to worry about me.”

 

It sounded like something Root would say, and it made Shaw flinch. That Root – the one that flirted openly, that was all smiles and innuendos – had disappeared a long time ago. On a good day, Shaw could blame Samaritan for that, but she knew better. She was the one who had crushed that Root, who had betrayed her trust. The war, the exhaustion, the never-ending list of aliases, it all took its toll on Root; but it was Shaw who had given her the final blow.

 

Shaw, and Martine.

 

“Finch asked me to check up on you,” Shaw explained, her voice barely sounding like hers. She only had to complete her task and then quickly leave, she reminded herself. And to not let the anger resurface. “That’s all.”

 

She sat on the edge of the bed as Martine lifted her shirt, giving her a clear view of the bandages on her stomach. While Shaw focused on taking them off, she missed Martine’s hand rising from the bed, fingers reaching up to cup her cheek.

 

“We both know that you always do,” Martine pushed herself up from the mattress with her other hand, her face suddenly inches away from Shaw’s, “and _take_ as you please.”

 

They had played enough mind games that Shaw knew for certain that moving apart would be admitting weakness. Martine was trying to assert some kind of dominance over her again, and even though Shaw’s instincts wanted to buck and push back, she forced herself to pull away.

 

Shaking her head, Shaw sighed. “It wasn’t like that.”

 

Falling back on the bed, Martine winced in pain. Evidently she had slightly reopened her wounds in the movement, and that strangely brought some relief to Shaw. A reminder that Martine was far from having the upper hand, this time.

 

“It was exactly like that,” Martine hissed as Shaw took off her second bandage, the adhesive tape pulling at the skin, furiously reddening it. “You couldn’t be with her, so you took your pleasure elsewhere.”

 

Insisting that Martine had been more than a willing participant would have no purpose; Shaw was more than aware of that. And so she ignored the way her chest flared up in something that wasn’t exactly anger, and how bile seemed to crawl up her throat, threatening to drown her in bitterness. Instead, she took comfort in the fact that her hands were still steady as she reached for the washcloth on the settee.

 

At least Finch had prepared the supplies; she dreaded having to spend more time than necessary here.

 

“What’s the matter, Shaw?” Martine broke the silence once more, biting her lip when Shaw dabbed on an open wound a little too brusquely. “Don’t tell me you’re having trouble with the girlfriend now?”

 

Something snapped in the middle of Shaw’s chest, and for a second she could picture herself hitting Martine hard, right on that large bruise Root had given her days ago. But she had promised herself she wouldn’t lose it to anger, wouldn’t let Martine win.

 

Closing her eyes, Martine let out a pained breath before she licked her lips. “You know I find _communication_ is the key,” she continued, her tone still mocking despite the obvious pain she was in. “If you just told Root how you feel about her –”

 

“I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed by some bitch who should be dead by now,” Shaw interrupted, trying to reign in her frustration as she dropped the washcloth and grabbed an antiseptic wipe. Good bedside manners would have asked that Shaw warn her patient of the upcoming hurt; she took a little pleasure in the shock that coursed through Martine’s body at the sudden sting.

 

Her voice had lost all its condescension when she spoke again, in a tone so low that Shaw nearly didn’t hear. “And yet I’m still here,” she reminded Shaw, her teary eyes scrutinising Shaw’s face. “Why is that?”

 

There were cracks in Martine’s usual smugness and confidence, betraying something hollow behind. But Shaw refused to peek in, refused to care. “Information,” she replied as coldly as she could manage.

 

“So you’re here to torture me?” Martine sadly chuckled. “How _charming_.”

 

Shaw only needed to cover up her injuries with fresh bandages, and then she’d be able to leave. And yet she wondered if she wouldn’t be followed out of the station by this ghost; this weakened version of Martine that seemed to desperately leech on her. There was a question that had bothered Shaw for weeks, too; an interrogation she had forced herself to ignore for so long that tonight it felt like it was taking all the space.

 

“Why did you do all this?”

 

For one second, Shaw almost believed Martine was going to give her an honest answer. But the saddened look in her eyes turned to an amused glint that Shaw abhorred. “You mean, why did I _fuck_ you?”

 

That annoying smirk Shaw usually wiped out with a punch or a kiss was back, but this time Shaw didn’t move. She stared back instead, waiting to find the cracks she had seen only a moment before. “What do you want me to tell you? That it was a devious master plan from my employers to keep you unfocused? Or a way to get you to turn against your pathetic friends?”

 

“I want the truth,” Shaw answered, yet again pushing aside her annoyance.

 

Martine reached out to grab fresh bandages from the settee, shoving them in Shaw’s hands with a frustrated look. “I thought you preferred lies and deception, Shaw,” she pushed herself off the mattress once more, sitting up with a crazed light burning in her eyes. “That’s what this little charade between us has been about, no? You pretending I was _her_ so you wouldn’t have to admit that you love Root.”

 

Shaw wanted to storm out, to punch someone, to blow up something. The words crawled on her skin like ants she couldn’t shrug off, and yet she forced herself to stay still. Her voice was strangely calm as she replied, her fingers deftly applying the bandages on their own. “I am done talking about me, or about Root,” she stated, her throat closing in. “I’m talking about you, and about why you started this mess to begin with.”

 

With one hand resting over Martine’s stomach, her palm feeling the burning heat of her healing skin, Shaw bore her eyes into hers. It took a few seconds of defiance before Martine finally surrendered, throwing glances down where Shaw was still touching her.

 

“If you must know, Sam,” she smiled sadly, as if fond of something she had lost, “I sincerely thought it would be fun.”

 

Nodding, Shaw let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Was it?”

 

Martine flinched before she let herself fall back onto the mattress.

 

Silence filled the room before Shaw asked again, almost accusingly; “was it fun?”

 

There was a beat before Martine finally complied, her eyes finding Shaw’s again. She looked exhausted, broken in a way Shaw had never seen before.

 

“Well, you know what they say about playing with fire.”


	10. Chapter 10

The edge of Finch’s desk scraped Root’s lower back as she rested against it, mouth drying up at the sight of Shaw’s grin. She knew that smile, and what it promised – over the last few weeks she had avoided it as best she could, terrified of what it meant. Yet tonight, perhaps because she had poured too much vodka into an empty stomach, she didn’t mind it as much. The station remained quiet around them as Shaw stepped forward; only the soft buzzing of Finch’s computer and the familiar hum of the neon lights filled the space between them.

 

Root’s heart shuddered pleasantly when Shaw’s hand circled around her, pressing on her back to urge her closer to Shaw. And in many ways, Root worried it was a mistake to let this happen; a weakness to allow Shaw to reach for her heart once again. Still she refused to look away, equally terrified at the thought of pulling apart, of letting hurt separate her once more from the woman she simply couldn’t stop loving.

 

And so instead of listening to reason she placed her own palm just above Shaw’s hip, her fingers instinctively toying with the fabric of Shaw’s shirt. For a moment she forgot about the bleakness of the empty subway station; the ache that still throbbed from her newest wound; the exhaustion that had culminated in one drink too many.

 

As if running towards the edge of a cliff, ready to jump down, Root breathed down while she bit her lower lip, leaning in.

 

So many things between them still remained to be said, and yet Root couldn’t bring herself to speak. A thick silence always laid between the two of them now, not cold and bitter as before, but weighted with hope. As if a soldier on duty, in the past few weeks Shaw had never failed to show up every time Root dropped by the station, ready to disinfect cuts and bandage wounds and fuss over Root and _heal heal heal_. Root had started to associate the tingling sensation of her skin regenerating with _that_ worried look in Shaw’s eyes, and her guts twisted at the thought of it.

 

Because feelings had fooled them too many times before, and Root knew just how dangerous and delirious it was to hope for a fresh start. One where Shaw had never slept with Martine; where Root hadn’t threatened Shaw’s life on top of a building. One where they had spent that night together in the hotel, where fear and guilt and shame hadn’t pulled them both away from each other.

 

Feelings, Root had always been sure of this, were behind every bad line of code.

 

But tonight with the vodka flushing her cheeks, with Shaw’s warmth wrapped around her, and that strong arm tightened around her hips, Root was forgetting all of that again.

 

“What are we doing?” she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, even though they hadn’t quite reached her brain yet.

 

It had been a long time coming – weeks of subtle glances, of worried eyes, of knots in stomachs. Weeks of Shaw being _there_ , not pushing, not asking questions, not trying to explain herself. Day after day Shaw silently helped, like some strange atonement made of improvised snacks and first aid kits. And if at first Root had found it nothing more than annoying, now she was starting to worry it might end. That Shaw might realize that she owed Root nothing, and that perhaps they should both move on and forget each other.

 

“Don’t ask dumb questions,” Shaw replied almost softly, her breath tickling Root’s lower lip.

 

More than her usual instinct to run and more than the fear that thrummed against her heart, Root wanted to kiss Shaw again, and truly mean it.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” a condescending voice pulled them both out of the moment, harshly. “Am I interrupting something?”

 

It had taken Shaw only a second to turn around and pull Root behind her, but she hadn’t been fast enough to reach for her gun on the desk. A warning shot fired just beside them froze her gesture mid-air and the knot in Root’s stomach collapsed into a rush of adrenaline as her eyes met Martine’s. The comforting sound of Finch’s computer perpetually running in the background faded away immediately, and maybe that was why it took Root more than three blinks before she noticed another presence in the room.

 

Sitting at Martine’s feet with his ears pointed up as if awaiting orders, Bear was as immobile as a statue. And for the first time in a very long time, Root remembered what he was, what he had been before Reese offered him a home; an attack dog.

 

“You’re gonna regret this,” Shaw warned. Root wondered for a moment if she meant aiming a gun at Root’s head, or using Bear against her.

 

But how ridiculous they seemed now, those feelings that had plagued her for months. How insignificant in the face of death, of failure; they were going to lose the war against Samaritan, all because they hadn’t brought themselves to killing a prisoner, or perhaps because they had been so caught up into their own problems that they had underestimated just whom they had captured. How naive of them to think that Martine hadn’t been planning her escape for weeks.

 

Taming the dog, Root had to admit, was a nice touch. It really added insult to injury, especially when one took notice of Shaw’s enraged expression – which, if Martine’s grin was any indication, was perhaps the sole intent behind it.

 

His leash firmly wrapped around her hand, Martine continued to smile. “I don’t think so, darling,” she replied, although her eyes remained on Root. “ _Blijf_ Bear,” she ordered.

 

The command to stay only angered Shaw further, but it had little effect on Root. Her eyes wandered around her surroundings as subtly as she could, her mind working in overdrive trying to figure a way out. Something, anything, to ensure that Martine wouldn’t leave the station tonight. But in her ear the Machine kept quiet, and out there Finch and Reese were still tracking their latest number, unaware of what was happening here.

 

Unaware that the tides had turned, and that the wave would swallow them whole.

 

“Samaritan will be happy to have you back,” Root sarcastically reminded Martine. “I’m sure It’s been worried sick about you.”

 

Martine laughed; under the grim lighting of the station, she looked even paler than when Root had seen her last. Finch had described her as resigned, sad even, but Root thought desperate and cruel fit her better.

 

“Your concern for my well-being is touching, Samantha,” Martine smirked. The name bothered Root more than she’d care to show – another reminder of just how well Martine knew how to rattle her cage. She shook her head as if she found Root's anger both adorable and ridiculous.

 

Shaw’s leg jerked as if she was about to step forward, but the movement brutally stopped as Martine’s finger tightened over the trigger. “Tut tut tut,” her smile didn’t waver. “There’s no need to get excited,” Martine waited a beat before she glanced at Bear. “Now I bet that our little friend here doesn’t want to hurt you,” she started, her grin turning into a threatening expression of barely concealed rage. “However, he _has_ been conditioned to obey commands.”

 

Root too easily pictured the dog jumping at Shaw’s throat, and a shiver ran down her spine. She fought the urge of reaching for Shaw, finding comfort instead in how close they both stood to each other, and how Shaw had instinctively shielded Root from harm.

 

“This,” Martine seemed entirely too joyful now, “is a _very_ interesting experiment, don’t you think?”

 

Shaw’s closed fists and Root’s tightened jaw were the only answers she would get.

 

“Should we see what wins in the end?” Martine teased, although her voice cracked a little. “Years of training and a past of violence and abuse, or _love_?” she ridiculed, loosening her grip on the leash.

 

Under Bear’s absent and cold gaze, Root wasn’t so sure that if Martine yelled _Vast_ , he wouldn’t attack. And somehow in the tensed silence of the station, Root could feel Shaw’s reluctance at the thought of hurting him, even to defend herself.

 

Martine nodded with a sad, knowing smile. “That’s what I thought.”

 

Trapped between the desk and Shaw, Root wondered if she could reach for Shaw’s gun and grab it before Martine had time to open fire. Thin odds, she realized; yet it was worth it.

 

As if Martine had read Root’s mind, she shook her head. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she warned, her expression turning serious once more. Sparing one glance at the exit, Martine’s eyes darkened. “This had been very lovely,” another smile appeared on her lips, although this one looked forced. “But I only dropped by to say goodbye.”

 

"If you step out of here," words rushed out of Root’s mouth before she could stop herself; “Samaritan will kill you.”

 

It didn’t matter that Martine hadn’t revealed any useful information; after having spent so much time as a prisoner, Samaritan would never trust her as an asset again. Root wasn’t sure what troubled her about that particular fact, exactly. Perhaps it was because if the situation had been reversed, she knew the Machine would’ve come for her – Samaritan hadn’t wasted resources looking for Martine.

 

Something tugged at Root’s heart, and it took her a second to recognize it as pity.

 

“I know,” Martine replied in a cold, detached voice.

 

Lowering her gun, Martine ordered Bear to follow her. Shaw instinctively moved to grab her weapon on Finch’s desk, but Root’s hand landed on her wrist before she could aim it at Martine. “She’s gone,” Root let out in one short breath.

 

A strange elation grabbed hold of her chest, as if an invisible weight had just been lifted. But Shaw didn’t notice the change; she turned around and ran down the corridor where Martine had just disappeared, intent on catching her. Root found she couldn't bring herself to follow.

 

As she listened to Shaw’s hurried footsteps, Root leaned against the desk once more, her eyes embracing the familiar setting one last time. They had lost the station, she realized, just as they had lost the library before. She should have felt the blow as she had, then; worry and anger should be flowing through her veins, burning every thought. And yet all that remained was the uncanny sensation of something ending.

 

Their precarious stalemate was over. For better or worse.


End file.
